The seventeenth day
by duchessofdisaster
Summary: Alaric shows up with newspapers, ideas, and no idea how to just ask.


The first eleven days in a row that Alaric knocks on the door of the boarding house between nine and ten at night, the event retains a degree of novelty; not a promise, but at the very least potential. But night after night, Alaric has _news_, or some sort of an _idea,_ and now, Damon is bored.

Damon _hates_ being bored.

The twelfth night, because he can smell Alaric coming from a mile away, he breezes past the door moments before the knock, and just opens it, enjoying Alaric's look of confusion.

Always something. A newspaper article about some dead girl. Or a bunch of them. Or an idea about killing originals.

"Can anyone really come back from a beheading?" (Puh-lease.)

"What if we trap him in a house with a bunch of hot sorority girls and set the whole thing alight?" (You've met him, right? Frat boys, maybe. Even then, he'd run out on fire, kill us all, and wake up without so much as a tan.)

The sixteenth night, Damon doesn't answer the door. Sits in the library, warming his glass in his hand, and wonders whether or not Alaric has the balls to just try the fucking doorknob.

He doesn't.

The seventeenth night, Damon opens the door, stretches himself against its length. One hand on his hip.

"Hell-oooo," he says, as lascivious as he can manage. Which, he knows, is pretty fucking lascivious. He's wearing his smallest t-shirt, his skinniest jeans, an inch of flesh showing at his hip.

Alaric just waves a newspaper in his face.

"I think I have something," he says, waltzing into the library, twitching that fine ass. Damon rolls his eyes, following behind. Alaric's pouring himself a glass of bourbon and pointing to the paper, open on a great dark-wooded desk.

Damon reads the first three paragraphs. "Ric," he says.

Alaric is stretched out on the couch. "Yeah?"

"This person…" He rubs at the bridge of his nose, frustrated. "This is a _middle-aged man_."

(Because there is a pattern; they both know that buttoned-down Stefan is drinking his fill mainly on girls – mostly, young, hot girls, tending towards olive skin and dark hair – and even when it's boys, they're never older than twenty-five, and still they almost all look a little like Elena.)

"If he's hungry, he's hungry."

"This middle-aged man was attacked by a bear."

"Animal attacks, man. Oldest excuse in the book. The newspapers in Mystic Falls -"

"Attacked by a bear in front of _eight other people_, Ric."

"They could have been compelled to -"

Damon frowns. "And look at his twenty-year old daughter." He shoves the paper under Alaric's nose. "His twenty-year old daughter who was there at the time?"

Alaric nods, that odd, manic nod. "Yeah?" He hasn't finished his drink, tops it up quite unnecessarily.

In the photo, the girl has long, dark hair, a tiny waist, hips forever. Legs to her armpits. "And? Notice anything?"

Alaric frowns. "Ah. Yeah. So you think if it was Stefan, he would have… Ah. Yeah. Good point." He nestles further into the couch. "Good point."

Damon shakes his head, incredulous. Takes the paper away. Folds it neater than etiquette requires, and shifts closer to Alaric on the couch.

Alaric doesn't respond. At all. Continues to warm the bourbon in his hand.

"You've come here every night for nearly three weeks, Ric."

"Yeah, and?" He actually has the gall to look irritated. "I thought we had a job to do."

Damon nods, bites at his lip. Doesn't shift his gaze from Alaric, but lets his eyes open wider.

"We do. We do. We have a job to do."

Alaric won't meet his eyes.

"But is there anything _else_ you want to talk about?"

No response.

Alaric never, _never_ spends less than a couple of hours in the boarding house; usually more like five or six, and with his drink on, he can usually be convinced to sleep on the couch. Damon hasn't even tried to get him up the stairs before. He can't explain why, even to himself, but he doesn't want to… push.

At least, he didn't.

Not until the seventeenth night.

Tonight, for reasons he can't explain, even to himself, he shifts even closer on the couch, runs his thumb over Alaric's knee.

Alaric leaps to his feet like he's been shot.

"Well, better luck tomorrow," he says, putting his glass down. "I'd better go."

No one turns down Damon Salvatore. No one. (Well, Elena. But.)

Alaric's car is almost on the highway when Damon drops lightly out the window and runs to the loft apartment. Smirking.

Alaric invited him in, once.

Alaric opens the door, rubbing his eyes. Yawning. Sees Damon sitting on the couch, and makes a noise that is not quite manly at the back of his throat.

"Damon? What the fuck…?"

Damon makes an exaggerated roll of his head. "Exactly the question I was asking myself, Ric. _What the fuck_." He sips at the amber liquid in his glass. "By the way. I think I know why you've been coming over. Well, one of the reasons. This is… fucking horrible."

And it's true – it's cheap, nasty bourbon – but while Damon loves the good stuff, he likes to roll in the dirt as well. Cheap bourbon makes him think of other times.

Alaric hasn't moved, except to close the door.

"I've been coming over because I thought we were trying to find your brother." He has the gall to sound self-righteous.

"We were. Until you started showing up with blatantly un-Stefan-ish kills to _impress_ me with. See, I have a theory, now."

Alaric doesn't move from his place by the door. "Theory?"

Damon doesn't look at him. "Yep. A theory." He's lying back in the couch, relaxed, eyes closed, looking for all the world like someone who isn't a vicious predator, someone who couldn't kill Alaric with one unnecessarily dramatic gesture.

That's all he's giving.

Alaric makes a strangled sound, grabbing the bourbon, not bothering with a glass. "This should be good," he starts. Pours a good slug down his throat. Doesn't even react to the burn he must feel.

He's wary. Pretending he isn't. Damon loves it. Loves that Alaric knows what's coming but is still lying to himself about it. His stance is defensive, but just barely. Just to test the waters, Damon leans forward on the couch. Faster than he needs to, but only a little.

Alaric responds as predicted. Flinches. Coughs, barely, and takes a step back.

Damon rolls his hips, leans back, stretches even further on the couch. The barest scrap of flesh exposed at his hip. Holds Alaric's gaze, except when Alaric chances a glimpse south.

"See, Ric…" he starts. "I figure you haven't fucked a guy since college." Eyes wider, and roaming Alaric's face, eyes, mouth, his lips already swelling in arousal.

Alaric splutters. "I haven't – what?"

Damon ignores the protest. "I said, I figure you haven't fucked a guy since college. And you've forgotten how to ask."

Alaric can't speak, and Damon is ferociously, and invisibly, delighted.

He's still holding Alaric's gaze with his own, and won't give an inch.

"You're fuckin' drunk, Damon. You should go home."

Before he even closes his mouth on 'home', his lame attempt to sound outraged dying on his tongue, Damon has him pinned against the wall. Bottle still in his hand. Damon lifts Alaric's wrist, pours bourbon down his own throat. He swallows, and drops Alaric's wrist.

"For the record," he coughs, "that really is awful stuff."

Alaric opens his mouth to say something, but Damon is faster. Whirls him faster than he can think, throws him against another wall. Liquor forgotten, dropped, pouring out onto the floor. Hip to hip. The pressure almost enough to bruise, but no harder.

"I don't know what you were expecting, Damon, but I don't -"

"Oh, really? You don't? Your body says otherwise." The smallest twitch of his hips, and Damon's made his point.

The longest time, they stand like that. Frozen. Both breathing hard, because although Damon doesn't need the oxygen, he can't think of another way to say this is more than just a power play, that he's in this for real. Pupils blown wide. Both so hard and aching they can hardly stand.

Millimetre by millimetre, Alaric starts to relax.

Damon blinks, slow. "I can make it easy for you. You don't have to ask. You can just say yes. Or have you forgotten how to do that, too?"

Quick as a flash, Alaric's fist meets Damon's jaw. The sheer shock of it throws him backwards.

"Or, I guess, you can say 'no.' Fuck me, Buffy, that's quite a right hook." Damon stands straighter, rubs his jaw. "I don't have to be told twice. Usually," he adds, hand on the doorknob.

He doesn't even get a chance to pull it open before Alaric's on him, fists balled in the collar of his t-shirt, lips pressing hard enough to bruise, to bleed, to ache exactly enough. Tongue insistent, exploratory.

Damon responds enthusiastically, holding tighter than he needs to, arm hooked hard around Alaric's waist. Shockingly, Alaric's not shy, moving one hand to dig nails into Damon's hips, making him shiver deliciously. Hard enough to make him bleed for a moment. Just a moment, skin knitting shut beneath Alaric's hands.

Alaric hooks his leg behind Damon's unexpectedly, and then they're both on the ground.

"So you haven't forgotten everything," Damon murmurs against his chin.

"I haven't forgotten _anything_." Alaric takes Damon's lower lip in his mouth, grabs at his belt, and Damon's starting to wonder if Alaric is some kind of human vervain, because he's feeling sloppy, weak, as Alaric yanks at his jeans, rough and determined.

Damon can't remember the last time he's been this turned on.

This was _definitely_ a good idea. He thinks this twice; once as he's kicking off his shoes so Alaric can get his jeans off (for future reference, slightly less skinny jeans might facilitate this a little better) and once when he feels Alaric take him whole in his mouth.

Damon groans, thrusting up into Alaric's mouth. Alaric takes his ass in his hands, pushing him even further. Shifts to stick a finger, two, into Damon's tight hole.

Damon secures his hands in Alaric's hair, groaning again. "Christ, Ric." Feels a third finger, the slow stretch, and before he knows it, he's coming, hard.

Alaric doesn't even slow down, drinks him like ambrosia. As Damon's climax shudders to it's inevitable and tragic end, Alaric shifts his head, nips at Damon's balls, and he's instantly erect again.

Shirts depart at long last and Alaric bites down hard on one of Damon's nipples. He whimpers; the line between pleasure and pain for Damon blurred long before he became a vampire. He's kissing Alaric again, grappling with Alaric's hands for the right to get the last of these painfully restrictive clothes off. Needs skin against skin. Grabs at Alaric's cock, once it's finally free of it's fabric prison. Should have known he'd be huge. Kneading, pulling, as Alaric sucks at his tongue, his lower lip.

Alaric's panting hard, with a look on his face that says Damon's about to get the fucking of a lifetime. His eyes are all pupil as she shifts suddenly to cover Damon's mouth with his own. Damon's hand hasn't shift from Alaric's hair. "You haven't forgotten much, I'll give you that."

Alaric grimaces suddenly. "Actually, I've forgotten lube."

No, no, no. Damon's not prepared to let a little thing like that stop them now. Dark veins trace his eyes, his fangs descend, and for a moment, Alaric looks afraid.

(Damon's never sure how he feels about seeing fear on a friend's face; especially a friend he's been having impure thoughts about for months. One the one hand, he likes them to remember that he's dangerous; on the other, no matter how big a dick he is, he wishes the people he cares about would remember that he's risked his life for them at least a dozen times each.

_Not_ something he'd do for someone he saw as a snack.)

He bites into his own hand, and Alaric grins viciously as Damon grabs for him again. He's lubing Alaric up with blood as he whispers "blood does fine in a pinch." Thinks again about the sheer size of the cock in his hand and is grateful he at least heals fast.

Gets one last kiss in before Alaric flips him onto his belly. Stretches him a little further with two fingers, and with one hard thrust, he's balls deep in Damon's ass. Damon resists the urge to shout; that pleasure/pain line is his own private battle to fight, and he doesn't want Alaric to stop. Deep, hard thrusts against Damon's prostate, thrusts Damon didn't even know he needed so badly before just this minute. He feels his muscles shift deliciously under his skin.

Clearly it's been a while for Alaric, because he doesn't last long; Damon feels the shudder as Alaric wraps his arms around him, drawing him closer.

Alaric withdraws, spent, and rolls onto his back. Damon lies still for a long moment, feeling blood and semen leaking from his holiest of holies, satisfied in a way he hasn't been in a long time.

He doesn't even know how long they lie like that; only knows he wants to reach out and lay a hand across Alaric's arm. Just wants something tender for a moment.

Reminds himself he's Damon fucking Salvatore, and takes his friend by the arm. Alaric startles, as if he's forgotten Damon's even there.

"Don't tell me you're a cuddler," Alaric says, mockery dripping like honey from his lips.

"Don't try and tell me you're not," Damon answers, pulling himself into Alaric's arms. They lay like that for several minutes. "I think we ruined your rug."

"Better try to make it to the bedroom, next time."

Damon grins. "What makes you think there's going to be a next time?"

Alaric nips at his bottom lip. "There's going to be a next time," he growls, low in his throat.

Damon smirks. This is going to be _fun_.


End file.
